Page 81 of Sinfully Shameless Chef

“Shit, Jamo. I mean, we all felt that way…is that where the black eye came from?”

I snort and shake my head. “Yeah. I figured you wouldn't buy that lame story, but I had to come up with something. I got into a little tussle during one of the games.”

“At least you're keeping the family tradition alive in that respect.”

“Yeah. It's the others I worry about, though.” Dad was incapable of truly loving anyone, not even himself. Certainly not Mom, Bash, Rachel, or me. And I'm terrified I won't be able to, either. “How did you know you loved Greer?”

“Oh, Jesus. We’re really getting deep tonight, aren’t we?” He releases a laugh that holds no humor. “I can't tell you that, Jameson. It was just a feeling. One day, I just knew. If Isabella is the right one for you, you'll know it.”

“And if she isn't?”

“The fact that you're this distraught over her being sick is the answer you’re looking for.”

I think it is, too. I just never thought it would be that simple when nothing else in my life seems to be.

* * *

IZZY

Technology may have advanced by leaps and bounds over the last several decades, but hospitals always feel the same.

Dreary.

Depressing.

The last place you want to spend any time.

Even after years of coming here for testing and treatments, getting to know the nurses and my doctors on a personal level, it never gets less miserable. But maybe that has something to do with the fact that I keep getting sicker, too.

I never thought I'd get to this point—and certainly not this young. Even knowing the path my disease typically takes, I convinced myself that since it has been so long and I was doing okay, I would continue to—maybe indefinitely.

Perhaps that was playing ostrich and just putting my head in the sand, but I refused to give in to this until it made it impossible for me not to.

And that time seems to have come.

The battery of tests Thaddeus has put me under over the last twenty-four hours since I woke only confirm what we both already knew. We've reached the point where things are dire. It's no longer a matter of keeping my kidneys working even at little function. They've essentially died, and only hemodialysis is going to keep the toxins in my body from killing me.

Though where I am was inevitable, I’ve been fighting the urge to have a full-on breakdown all day. Even Ashley here telling me it's okay and trying to distract me has barely kept me sane. Yet, I refuse to lose my shit. Not when I told Grams I’d always be strong and would always fight.

Ashley taps my shoulder and motions toward the television screen. “Did you see that? The blue frog was Jermaine Johnson.”

“No way. Sorry, I missed it.” I can’t even enjoy mindless shows like Webflix’s Mystery Singer like I should be able to. And not just because of the bad news Thaddeus delivered, but because I know what else is coming and what I have to do.

Waking up yesterday to find Jameson beside my bed was equal parts infuriating and heartbreaking. He was the last person I wanted here and the only person I wanted to see. That conflict warring inside me has been almost as painful as knowing I’m not going to be able to open Grandma’s Kitchen.

And almost as if he can tell I’m thinking about him, he appears in the doorway of my room, a bouquet of posies in his hand. He offers me a little half-smile, and when Ashley follows my gaze, she leaps up out of her seat and over to him. She leans in to whisper something, and he nods before she gives me a little wave and disappears down the hallway.

Knowing her, she won't go far. She knows better than to leave me alone with Jameson for any real length of time. Knows what it could do to me.

He enters slowly, glances at the television, and points to it with his free hand. “You like the show?”

“It's better than Prime Chef.”

Jameson laughs even though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You know, if anyone else said that, I’d probably be pissed, but from you, I almost anticipated it.”

“I guess I'm predictable, huh?”

He lowers himself into the chair next to the bed and sets the flowers on the small table to my right. “No, Izzy, you are far from predictable.” His concerned gaze sweeps over me. “How are you feeling?”

---